Vengeance 10 (30 page)

Memling acknowledged. At least the painful - physically and mentally - three months of training were behind. Coupled with an almost overpowering fear of going back into German territory was his growing estrangement from Janet, so that he had boarded the aircraft at Church-Fenton almost with a sense of relief.

Their difficulties had begun the evening Simon-Benet asked him to undertake the operation. He had told Janet only that he was being sent on detached duty, but she had either guessed from his attitude, or picked up rumours in Northumberland Avenue, that he was being sent into Germany, and it had occasioned an argument that had nearly ended in a complete break. Janet maintained he had done more than could be expected of anyone, that it was plain his nerves were not up to such a mission, and, finally, that she could not go through the agony of waiting and wondering if he would come back.

During the final weeks before he left for training, the argument had recurred several times until they became afraid to speak to each other. Memling had taken to sleeping in the spare bedroom, and their parting at Victoria Station had been strained. Since then, Janet’s weekly letters had become shorter and shorter until they were little more than notes concerning the weather, the same war news he heard on the BBC, and occasional comments about the increasing influx of Americans.

The ready light went on, filling the tiny space with its reddish glow. He fumbled to make certain that everything was in order. Parachute - he checked each fastening and made certain that the rip-cord ran free; chest pack containing the heavy radio transmitter, rations for three days, and his pistol, a Walther PP nine-millimetre automatic which he had obtained from a captured German officer in France. He himself had made the silencer for it from a length of conduit tubing packed with metal washers and steel wool. He buckled his leather and steel crash helmet securely and did up the laces on his boots, then made certain that the Fairbairn knife was strapped to his left boot - and waited, trying to hold the fear in check.

The pilot apologised for disturbing his rest and announced they were now passing Greifswald. ‘No anti-aircraft fire and no sign of night fighters. Maybe we got through without Jerry spotting us this time.’

Memling muttered something in reply, and when the co-pilot broke in to tell him to stand by, he removed his earphones and clipped them into their rack.

The minutes dragged before the yellow light went on. Memling released the four catches holding the plywood cover over the circular hole cut through the doors of the bomb bay, and slid it aside. He struggled into a sitting position, head bent, legs straddling the hole, and squinted at the frigid windblast. The yellow light began to blink the fifteen-second warning, and Memling slid his feet into the hole. Immediately the wind sucked them back against the fuselage, and he had to brace himself to keep from sliding through. For a moment the urge to pull his feet back, re-cover the hole, and go home to Janet was overpowering. The green light came on, and without thinking, Memling straightened his back as he had been taught, and dropped.

Even with the Mosquito bomber throttled right back to stalling speed, the one-hundred-and-forty-mile-an-hour wind of their passage flung him astern, tumbling him while he sought to spread arms and legs to maintain stability. He had an impression of the dark fuselage slipping past, black paint glinting with tiny highlights; and the earsplitting thunder of two Rolls Merlin 23 engines enclosed him in fury.

Then it was over, and he was wrapped in silence. The cold air brushed his face. The ground below was barely discernible. To his right lay a body of water interrupted by a dark landmass. The River Peene, he thought, the island of Usedom, and the Baltic beyond.

He glanced at the altimeter strapped to the top of his chest pack, twisting to catch the moonlight on its dial. The needle pointed steadily at zero. Damn, he muttered, and was surprised at the sound. Warrant Officer O’Reilly’s voice had dinned into his brain: ‘Wait until the needle points at eight hundred, boyo, or the bloody Hun will be waiting for you.’

There was nothing for it but to pull the rip-cord. Without the altimeter there was no way to judge a low-altitude drop at night. Memling made certain he was in position, took a quick look at the river to establish his orientation, and then pulled. He felt the canvas flaps slap against his helmet, had the impression of the pilot chute snaking behind, and then there was the sudden jolt that always came as a surprise when the chute blossomed and the sense of falling became apparent.

Memling craned his neck upward to make certain the black canopy had spread properly; then searched below for the pinpoint of light that would mark his reception team. There was a small pond or lake near the landing zone, and he fastened on its moonlight surface as a visual reference. The plan had been for the Mosquito to drop him at three thousand feet. He judged that he had fallen free for no more than eight or nine seconds, which meant that he had opened the canopy at about - he calculated the sum in his head - eighteen hundred feet. Maybe.

The ground came up fast. The lake had been misleading; it was further away from his point of impact than he had thought. Memling had just enough time to spot the pine tops, yank his shrouds to the left, and force relaxation into his knees before he smacked hard enough to knock the wind from his lungs.

He lay for some minutes, face pressed against damp moss, while he sought to regain his breath. When he could struggle painfully to his feet, the full realisation that he was in Germany broke on him and he had to sit down until the nausea passed. With few exceptions, every man, woman and child he encountered from now on would be his enemy.

At the same time, he experienced the heightening of senses that fear induced. The night was suddenly alive with a myriad of sounds, and even the darkness seemed to recede. His chute had caught on a pine branch, and that had upset his landing. Working quickly, he manoeuvred the canopy loose, tearing a long gash in the silk, and stuffed the endless yards of material back into the pack. He tied the flaps together and hunched down beneath the tree, listening.

He hadn’t seen the signal. And now there were only the normal night sounds to be heard: the scurrying of a small animal, the droning of insects, the bark of a distant fox, and once the flutter of wings as a night predator cruised past. He had been told as little as possible about his contact on the principle that the less he knew about the fledgling German resistance movement, the less he could betray during interrogation.

The hours inched by, and still he huddled beneath the tree, unmoving except for his eyes. Towards dawn he heard a cough some distance away and slid the Walther from his pocket, checked that the silencer was screwed on tight, and pushed the safety catch up with his thumb. A few moments later he heard a thin whistling. The sky had begun to lighten, so that he could make out large objects, but with the light had come a ground mist that softened and obscured outlines.

The whistling was closer now, and he stepped back into the trees.

It could be a woodcutter getting an early start or a routine patrol - although he could not imagine wasting manpower to patrol such an isolated section of the country. And it was not likely that a patrol sent out to find him would make so much noise.

Memling found himself staring at an apparition. The man, or woman, he could not be certain which, was dressed in a ragged jacket and pants; broken-down boots were tied on to its feet, a shapeless hat sat atop long greasy hair, and an axe was slung over one shoulder.

The apparition stopped, leaned on the axe, stared around, then asked in heavily accented English, ‘Where you are, Tommy?’

The man’s voice was deep, well modulated, and totally inappropriate to his appearance.

‘The password be’s Birmingham.’

Memling worked his way back into the trees as the man shrugged and sank down on to his haunches to wait. Memling moved silently back along his path, pausing often to listen and search the fog-shrouded trees for signs of a German patrol. The correct password was reassuring but not in itself sufficient. There had been plenty of time for the real resistance contact to be captured and the password extracted.

Memling went half a mile to the west, then described a wide circle south so that he approached his former location from the opposite direction. There had been no sign of any German activity; no sign, in fact, that anyone had been in the area in a long while. Jan came in through the trees, using the sparse underbrush as a screen, and the ragged woodcutter was still waiting. As Memling settled down to watch, the man yawned, shrugged, and stood up.

‘Tommy, I have not yet my breakfasts. When you satisfy yourself, you follow my tracks. I will have breakfasts waiting you. Okay?’

The man chuckled, and Memling gave it up. He stepped into the clearing, pistol in his right hand, eyes searching in every direction.

‘Oho! You are good, Tommy. Trusting nobodies. Good. Live to an old age, maybe. My name being Wolcowitz. Of Polish citizenships.’

Memling regarded him dubiously. ‘Polish? In Germany?’

‘Of course, and why not forever sakes? No Jew or officer. Just Wolcowitz the woodcutter.’

‘Woodcutters don’t normally speak English.’

The Pole bellowed with laughter, and Memling flinched. ‘For the love of God,’ he hissed, ‘keep quiet!’

The Pole shouldered his axe and motioned around at the trees. ‘Whyever do you say? Is no German nearby. None in woods. Only me, Wolcowitz. All Germans in Russia, fighting. Good place for them. Germans and Russians all kill each other, world be better place. Finn tell me once only Russian he like to see is over iron sights. For me, same with German. Come now. I quite hungries.’ Whistling, the Pole led off through the woods.

Wolcowitz served Memling a breakfast of rabbit stew, although Memling suspected the ingredients included other animals as well, to judge by the variety of gamey flavours. But he was hungry enough to eat anything that did not move, and Wolcowitz urged more food on him. Afterwards, to satisfy Memling’s edginess, the Pole took him on a sweep of the area.

A dirt track led into the forest from the general direction of Greifswald, an ancient town of forty thousand near the mouth of the River Ryck in the Greifswalder Boden, some twenty kilometres to the west and south. Memling studied the road carefully until he was certain it had seen no recent traffic. By noon he was satisfied that the area was as isolated as Wolcowitz claimed.

The two men stood in a sun-filled clearing. The heat-laden silence was broken only by the insistent drumming of cicadas. A bird flashed through the trees, and a squirrel chattered briefly. For the moment the constant fear was gone, and Memling turned his face to the sun and breathed deeply. It was almost possible to forget the war, but then the drone of an aircraft passing high above on its way east into Russia destroyed the mood, and the ever-present fear crept back.

Memling learned little from the Pole who, while talkative enough about non-essentials, was close-mouthed about the resistance and plans for Memling’s future. After a few hours’ acquaintance with the man he was convinced that Wolcowitz had once been an officer and was probably of good family as well. Even after years in the German forest as a woodcutter, he bathed and exercised regularly and his table manners were impeccable. His personal habits were in such contrast with his appearance that Memling remarked on them the first evening as Wolcowitz stood drying himself on the bank of the small stream that ran past his cabin.

‘Hah! Is what you call protective colours. Fool Huns if they come about. How it look to see woodcutter with neat clothes and shaved? But I do not like dirt on me.’

Memling spent a week with Wolcowitz. On the fourth day it rained, but they went out to cut trees anyway, the Pole explaining that he must deliver so many cords by the end of the summer if he wished to be allowed to return the following year. With Memling’s far from expert help, they made a large dent in the section of the forest in which Wolcowitz was expertly selecting and cutting trees. Memling began to suspect the Pole was in no hurry to pass him on.

On the sixth night a thin whistle sounded from the trees, and Wolcowitz motioned Memling to the front wall of the cabin. He went quickly, Fairbairn knife and pistol ready, noting with some surprise that the fear had receded abruptly. Wolcowitz took an automatic pistol from its hiding place and stepped outside. Memling heard quiet voices speaking in what he assumed was Polish, and then Wolcowitz called to him.

The moon was almost full, and the man standing beside ‘Wolcowitz was in German uniform. Memling froze, eyes searching wildly about the clearing for the shadowy figures of troops hidden in the trees. Wolcowitz laughed and urged the soldier towards the cabin.

‘So you would not kill my friend, Rodalski, you must see him with me. Good friend Rodalski is in guard unit in Anklam. Is Polish. Born in Danzig. Stupid Germans join him to army. They take anyones now, send them to Russia. Rodalski not his name, so don’t worry that account.’

Rodalski had come to guide Memling on the next stage of his journey. He had brought the proper clothes, and while Memling changed into the none too clean pants, shirt, and oversized shoes, the two men spoke together in Polish. As Memling was strapping the knife and sheath to his back, just below the collar of his ragged shirt, Wolcowitz broke off and came over to him.

‘Is better you not take weapons. Hun will know you are British and shoot you after while. But first will try and make you tell all you know. You not be able to hurt Wolcowitz if you speak, so do not worry then. Rodalski tells me must be gone from here tomorrow. Other job to do somewhere.’

Memling shook his head. ‘If the Gestapo arrests me, it won’t take them long to discover that ‘I’m not a Belgian foreign worker. My fingerprints are on file. I got away from them once, and they won’t let that happen again.’

Wolcowitz grasped his shoulder and squeezed. ‘You are brave man. Gestapo will kill you very slow. Better you not let them take you then.’